


The victims of war

by DoraTLG



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: 00Q Reverse Bang, Blowjobs, Bond is Russian, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, M/M, Major Injury, Sharing a Bed, Super Soldiers, War Fic, handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-16
Updated: 2014-12-16
Packaged: 2018-03-01 18:16:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2782850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoraTLG/pseuds/DoraTLG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James Bond is a Russian soldier with a bullet piercing his guts. Q is an English pacifist, a super soldier who doesn't want to kill.</p><p>"He landed on his feet and immediately rolled over, pulling out his gun, and the second he jumped to his feet, he turned around and aimed his Glock at the stranger. A Walther PPK muzzle was staring at him from a two feet distance, the hand on the grip covered in blood.</p><p>The man behind the pistol was staring at him with incredibly blue eyes, emphasized by his dirty face – that was the first thing he noticed and what made him slow in realizing who the man was.</p><p>The man looked him over, his eyes lingering on the crosses on his jacket and bags, and maybe that was what stopped him from shooting right away. And that one second he spent hesitating cost him his chance to survive."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a part of the 00Q Reverse Bang and I really enjoyed writing it :3 it's not stated anywhere in the fic, but this is the future, not any of the past wars. Not a world war three, I don't think so, but something quite big.  
> For the Russian part - I'm not Russian, so I used very simple sentences, I hope they are right :D that half a year learning the language gave me just very basic knowledge :D

It was night.

The war front fell dark and only distant moans and gasps full of pain kept alive the memory of a fight that ended just hours ago. Some trenches radiated a mild light from candles and oil lamps, more on the western front then on the eastern one. Death was present in the air filled with smoke, and, of course, in the corpses lying in the dirt. The blood soaked into soil. In the morning, there will be blood flowers growing over the pale faces and dead eyes will disappear under moss.

The moans gradually faded and when the first signs of a rising sun coloured the horizon into a red blurr, the fields became silent. Everyone fell asleep – some forever, some finally. Some finally forever.

A strangely shaped figure jumped out of the western trench and crouched near the ground. After a few beats of heart, the soldier rose up and broke into a run. He ran steadily, jumping over the bodies and guns, breathing evenly, for long minutes. He left the dead scene behind him, heading north-west, the numerous bags and straps all over his body flying around with every his step. The light growing stronger with every minute made it almost impossible to see his face.

He didn't slow down even after he reached the walls of sand and dirt that covered at least a mile of land before the forest. He climbed every one of them and jumped down to climb another one. He was going out of breath, the short intervals of excessive effort was weakening him. Another mound and he can rest…

He climbed it and before he could notice the shadow in the hollow, he jumped down.

He landed on his feet and immediately rolled over, pulling out his gun, and the second he jumped to his feet, he turned around and aimed his Glock at the stranger. A Walther PPK muzzle was staring at him from a two feet distance, the hand on the grip covered in blood.

The man behind the pistol was staring at him with incredibly blue eyes, emphasized by his dirty face – that was the first thing that he noticed and what made him slow in realizing, who he was. Quick glance at his uniform and he knew he was an enemy.

The man did the same, looked him over, his eyes lingering on the crosses on his jacket and bags, and maybe that was what stopped him from shooting right away. And that one second he spent hesitating cost him his chance to survive.

The enemy fell to his knees. The runner stepped back, sheeting himself from an attack, but the soldier was only raising his arm again, and this time, the Walther was shaking. His blue eyes were lit with last fire, but he couldn't bring himself to shooting the Red Cross volunteer. He kept his gun pointed at him, grinding his teeth, and the runner understood – he wouldn't go down without a fight. So he kept his Glock aimed at his head, but didn't plan on executing him. It took a few minutes, but finally, the man closed his intensive eyes and fell to the ground.

The runner waited a few seconds, then walked over to him, crouched down and, with the gun still aimed at the unconscious man, fell his pulse. He wasn't dead, but might be in a few hours without proper medical help. He rolled him over and looked for injuries – many scratches and bruises all over his face and hands and probably under the layers of tick fabric, too, but the most serious one was the shot wound on the right side of his abdomen. Cold blood soaked through his uniform.

The sun finally rose high enough to cast a light over the sand mounds, and the man's dirty face was visibly pale in it. The runner sighed deeply and rubbed his temples, forgetting about the blood on his fingers from the examination. He could leave him here. The man would surely die. He could take him with him. Then the man could possibly die, and so could he. But he made that decision when he accepted the Red Cross he carried.

 

 

James Bond woke up as if surfacing from under the water, quickly and painfully, like something pulled him from a dream. His first breath hurt – he quickly found out that breathing into his stomach, like he was taught to, would rip his side apart, so he started using his chest instead. After the first shocks calmed down, he realized there was something wet and warm on his forehead, and that his whole surroundings were much more pleasurable than the cold he's been experiencing for the past few weeks. And that there is someone right next to him.

He opened his eyes and blinked a few times to clear his sight. He was in some sort of a cabin, probably a cottage in the woods, very old, very small and very rusty. The bed he was on was the biggest part of a furniture, other than that there was just one table, a chair and a sink. Next to him on the bed sat a young man around twenty five, maybe twenty seven, with black curly hair and big green eyes staring at his own hand with which held that something that was touching his forehead. When the stranger pulled back, James could see it was a cloth balled up and wet. The man soaked it in a bowl in his lap.

He must have knew James was awake, but he didn't look at his face once. The cloth touched James' temples and cheeks and he could feel little drops of water run into his hair.

James couldn't remember how he got here. He was shot – yes, clearly, he could feel the realness of that memory in his side. Then, it was just a blur. He remembered the urge to move, to run for Alec, and he surely did, but this place couldn't be the base. So he didn't make it. Oh boy, are they fucked.

Was this an enemy? Should he ask? Should he speak at all? It seemed like this man saved his life. He could at least say his thanks. But how to start? Good morning? Wow, that would be awkward. Please, state your name and rank? Even more so. He forgot how to talk to real people. Should have practiced with those rocks in their trench.

The man stood up, took the cloth and bowl and walked to the sink. James noticed how bloody and dirty the water was and he wondered briefly if the man just washed him, and if he washed everything. Then he looked down for the first time. He was naked, covered in an old blanket, with his injured side patched up with reused, but quite clean gauze, and yes, he was washed. Everything. Even his fingers.

“Thank you,” he said. He was speaking with a strong Russian accent. His voice was ragged and he had to cough to clear his throat. The man nodded while setting the bowl down. James looked around. Several bags lied next to the sink, every one of them marked with a red cross. And with the Unity sign on them.

James swallowed his first reaction – to ask him about his reasons to let him live if he was a bloody enemy. There had to be reasons. He only hoped those reasons didn't involve him being used against his own nation.

“May I know your name?” he asked instead and the man turned around. He was dressed in an old shirt and at least one t shirt under it, and his trousers were too big for him, they were probably someone else's, James guessed a corpse. The belt holding them on his waist was almost torn apart. Still, he looked strong and capable, although smaller than James. Right now, he could maybe over power him. But James was used to fighting through dying, so who knows.

“Q,” he said after a hesitation.

“Q,” James bowed his head slightly. “James Bond.”

Q nodded again and turned away to squeeze the blood out of the cloth and into the sink. He wasn't frowning, but his face stayed blank and tense. He rolled up his sleeves and scrubbed his hands clean of the blood on them, which took several minutes, then bent down to wash his face. The old water stunk, but it was better than walking around with blood, dirt and probably someone's inner fluids on his face.

He wished the guy, James, didn't wake up this early. Actually, he was surprised when he breathed the first time – the rising of his stomach told him that he is trained, but that wasn't surprising. He was surely a soldier, now Q only needed to know his ranking.

“Are you a deserter?” he asked when he dried his face with his sleeve. James looked at him with those blue eyes and frowned.

“No.”

“Then why did you run away from a fight?”

James didn't answer.

“Come on, I saved your life, you could at least tell me why,” Q said and sat on the chair by the table. His jacket and coat hung from the backrest.

“I don't feel comfortable revealing anything to an enemy.”

Q felt respect for the man. Saying those words to anyone less friendly than him could be a dead sentence, but it looked like James was very much prepared for threats of violence.

“I am not your enemy. I am a nurse dressed in your enemy's clothes.”

James hesitated again, but then gave up.

“There wouldn't be much sense to it if I tried to escape with a hole in my side, now would it?” he asked. “I had a mission. I was trying to live long enough to accomplish it.”

Q didn't press when James stopped talking, and only thought about how stupid he must be, to think he could live with a bullet in him. But he wasn't curious about the mission – not what it was and not where he was heading. There are probably enemies hidden in the forest. He always suspected it.

“Why are you here?” James asked. “Why not be in the trench, where you can help? Are you hiding?”

Q rose his eyebrows at him.

“Are you trying to insult me because I called you a deserter?”

James smiled.

“Yes, partly. But I really am curious. Are you hiding?”

Q looked at the table and considered replying for a moment, then stood up and walked to the door, saying: “I should chop the wood. Oh, by the way,” he turned at the door, reaching into his pocket and tossing something very small at James. “This is your bullet.”

James caught the little metal knobble as Q exited. He couldn't believe something so small could have almost killed him. Again.

After Q came back with a pile of wood, he cooked a soup for them in an old pot above the fireplace, and they ate in silence. James wondered if the younger man was doing it all as a charity, if that was why he became a nurse in the first place – maybe he didn't live near the war zone, but he came there when he heard the shooting, and saved him, an enemy soldier. That spoke a lot about his nature. James hoped it will only take him a few days to walk away from here, and then send someone with some food and blankets and stuff like that, so he won't own him anything.

The soup was nothing better than what he ate in the trench every day, but it was warm and filled his empty stomach. After, he experienced another problem that was too ordinary to occur to him earlier.

“Ehm, Q?” he asked. “There is no chance you have a toilet here, is it?”

Q looked up from counting his medical supplies on the table.

“Outside,” he said calmly.

“Great,” James groaned. “You won't mind my naked arse, will you?”

Q just waved his hand without even raising his eyes. James sat up, bit his tongue so he wouldn't shout in pain, and drew aside the blanket. The air wasn't that cool, partly thanks to the fire, but he still shivered. Or maybe that was the fever. Yeah, definitely a fever. Q looked at him from under his lock of hair, an intense look James couldn't see, trying to stand up and walk. It took him long seconds to stumble to the door, never fully straighten up, and when he finally did, he had to fully support his weight against the wooden surface. After a while he inhaled again and walked out.

When he came back, he was pale and the gauze on his side was oozing blood. He stumbled to the bed and fell on his back.

Q sighed deeply and walked over to him with another gauze.

“Thank you for your help,” James gritted through his teeth and Q shot him an annoyed look.

“Should have I carry you?” he asked venomously.

“No, I meant… thank you. Thank you for your help. You saved my life and take care of me. I don't want you to…”

James cut off.

“Wait. Did you carry me here?”

Q's fingers stopped. A minute silence spread in the cabin. Then he continued in his work as If nothing happened, replacing the old gauze for a new one.

“You did, didn't you?” James asked unbelievingly. “How did you… oh.”

Q looked at him with a frown.

“Oh what?”

“I've heard of you. We all did. We thought it's just a legend, but…”

Q sighed and looked at his hands again.

“You are a super soldier.”

There was no reaction. Q finished his work and went to wash the dirty gauze.

“You are, aren't you?” James asked.

“Is it important?”

“It quite is, yes.”

Q shrugged, his back to James. “I am.”

“So it wasn't just a legend.”

“Are you afraid?” Q asked.

“Afraid?” James' teeth started to rattle. His fever slowly became a shiver, cold spreading through his body. “No. You don't look like you want to kill me. And anyway, what is a super soldier?”

Q rubbed the old cloth in the water. “Nothing much. Strength, speed, endurance, stamina…”

“How did they do it?”

Q looked at him and realized how James' body changed.

“Crap, you have a cold fever,” he walked over to him and pulled the blanket all the way up to his chin. “I'll make you some hot wraps.”

“Wait,” James caught his arm and pulled him back to examine his face. “When was the last time you slept?”

Q frowned in confusion, then shook his head.

“I'm fine. You are the shot one,” he tried to get away, but James didn't let him.

“There is no infection yet. It's probably just because of that little trip outside. It will get worse if I get the infection, so you should get some sleep now. Or are you that super you don't need to rest for a week?” he raised an eyebrow. One of the corners of Q's lips stretched into a bitter half smirk, the closest Q got to a smile since James woke up.

“All right,” he said and James finally let go of his arm. He went to the table, sat down and laid his head on his outstretched arms.

“You must be kidding me,” James said with amusement in his voice. “This is your bed.”

“Yes, and you're lying in it,” Q mumbled with his eyes already closed.

“And? I'll move, there is plenty of space for you.”

“Alright, there are limits,” Q sat up. “You are an enemy. Just having you here is a betrayal, do you know what saving you is? A bloody conspiracy or some other shit. And you want me to sleep with you in one bed.”

James calmly waited, then nodded.

“Yes. I'm cold. Come here, super soldier, I really hope you are super warm.”

Q sighed, but after a while of deciding between the hard, cold surface of the table and his own, soft-as-it-gets bed, James' suggestion won.

He lied into the corner of the wall and the mattress, trying not to touch James. He fell asleep in a minute. James was, finally, drawn into a daze from which the cold pulled him out every now and then. The fire slowly died and light from outside changed to dark that filled the cabin.

 

Q opened his eyes and his heart jumped in panic at what he saw, until, a second later, he remembered the previous day. He lied in the bed, staring at the man next to him, mentally kicking himself for his stupidity. What was he doing? Was he an absolute idiot? Yes, that he was, he established that many months ago and made his peace with it, but this was too much even on him.

James must have slept very deeply, because he didn't even move when Q got up. Good news was that his fever wasn't that serious anymore, although he was still too hot to be healthy, and of course, there was that hole in his side. Other than that, he looked fine. More than fine. Q had hard time looking away from him ever since he undressed him the previous day. James Bond looked like a Greek god, with his lean muscles and handsome face and those fucking eyes… yes, Q wouldn't mind sex with a guy like that before the war. Now, though… let's just focus on surviving the year, and when, IF, this fight ends, he can find a hundred James Bonds.

He made another fire and found a piece of dry bread that was still edible. He cut it in half and one half soaked in water while biting on the other one. His life will be even harder now that he had to divide everything by two. What the fuck was he thinking?

After he went out to piss, he sat down on the bed and checked James' side. The wound, fortunately, wasn't infected, which meant he would have to stay with him just for another few days, maybe a week and a half, and then he will carry him to the nearest village and leave him in some house. Or carry him a mile from his regiment, if James will let him. He can survive walking a mile. Well, OK, not now, but in a week, maybe.

James woke up an hour after, needing to take a piss again. Q sighed deeply when James tried to stand up, and stopped him.

“Wait,” he walked over to him. “Hug my neck.”

“You are not going to carry me, are you?” James asked with disbelief.

“Yes, I am. It's a miracle you didn't break your stitches the first time, I don't need you to bleed on me or risk another weeks of recovery. Hug my neck.”

With amused grunt, James did as told. Q picked him up and carried him bridal style out of the cottage and to the nearest tree, then put him down and turned away while James leaned against the tree with one hand and did as needed. They went back the same way.

“I need to leave,” Q said when he pulled a blanket over James' body. “Will you survive?”

“I guess,” James said. “Where are you going?”

Q dressed up into his layers of clothing and put the bread and a bowl of water by the bed.

“To check on the people you and your friends didn't manage to kill.”

He collected his bags. James looked slightly angry for the first time.

“You know, there were losses at both sides,” he said. “None of us begged to be here. We kill with as much pleasure as you do. It would be nice of you to understand that.”

Q nodded and moved to the door.

“I do understand that. But, subjectively, it's hard to feel compassion when I'm surrounded by bleeding, infected and dying friends.”

 

Q came back in the evening, tired and covered in blood and dirt. James woke up and watched him wash in a bucket of water he brought with him.

“Do you need anything?” Q asked when he was done and started to undress.

“Pee,” James said. He was hungry as hell, but he didn't want to be ungrateful. “And shit.”

Q stroke his face with his palm, realizing what that meant. “Oh, yeah.”

It was awkward and gross and embarrassing and degrading and none of them wanted to think of it again, but war makes you go through situations like that every day. They made it back and James lied down again.

“If you're a super soldier,” he started when Q was cooking another soup. “Why aren't you in the front line? Wouldn't that end the war quicker?”

Q considered not answering, but then he changed his mind. After weeks of no human contact apart from his trips to the war zone, he forgot how it is to talk to people, but James was slowly unknotting his tongue.

“I never wanted to be a soldier,” he said. “They didn't ask me. I was a technician and they thought I would make a great subject. But after sending us out to fight, I couldn't bare the people I killed. So I escaped. Yes, you would think that war is just about killing off every single soldier in the regiment. But that is very far from the truth. We have no impact on the result or duration of the war. We are just puppets that lower the population or Earth, draw the attention away from political games that actually matter. If we stopped fighting at all, what would happen? They'd be in a check-mate. They don't depend on us, but without us, their game is over.”

“I never thought about it like that before,” James said thoughtfully and slightly baffled. Q shrugged.

“People usually don't. You think you are protecting your nation. But are you at the borders, killing people that are trying to get past you to kill your family and friends? No. You are thousand miles from your state, killing people that are thousand miles from their state. And all your friends are warm and dry back home.”

James nodded. Yes, that made sense. Terrible, devastating sense, but sense nonetheless.

“Are any other super soldiers still alive?” he asked. Q shrugged.

“I suppose some died and some live.”

James wanted to ask how many of them there were at the beginning, but he feared Q might see through his casual appearance.

“Why do you serve?” Q asked. “Protecting friends and family?”

“I don't have any family and only friends I have are soldiers I fight alongside with. I thought I was fighting for my country. Now I'm not so sure. Not just because of your little speech, don't think high of yourself. Many soldiers die happy, or as happy as you can get while in these circumstances, convinced that their lives mattered. But a bigger part of them start questioning. You feel like the other side is full of blood craving psychopaths, and that helps. But at the end of the day, you consider letting them kill you.”

Q poured the soup into bowls and handed it to James.

“Then why do you continue?” he asked.

“I guess I don't like to lose.”

They ate in silence. Then, Q checked the wound again. James was healing surprisingly quickly. Soldiers in the trench were still in a critical condition, fighting death or infections. He supposed James was in a much better circumstances. He was having a constant fever, but nothing alarming, and his wound was slowly closing.

“Thank you,” James said.

“You don't have to thank me all the time,” Q said.

“I know. But I want to”

It made him uncomfortable. He didn't hear a proper thank you in such a long time… how do people respond to that? He was painfully reminded of how sometimes, in his old life, people tried to compliment him. He used to hate it so much. He never knew what to say or how to take it.

“What will you do when I'm alright?” James asked.

“I will carry you to safety. There is a village a few miles from here, I'll drop you there so you can contact your regiment. Or, if you will trust me enough, I can take you straight there. It's your call.”

“So I guess I won't be that alright if you'll have to carry me.”

“I really don't think you need to be here longer than a week,” Q said. James nodded.

“You should sleep,” he said. “You've had a hard day.”

“I'm not that tired,” Q rose and carried the empty bowls to the sink. “But you sleep. Sleep helps. And I'm sure you must be bored to death.”

He washed the bows and when he turned around, he found James' blue eyes staring at him intensely.

“What?” he asked. James slowly looked him over. It made Q shiver. James' eyes went back to his face.

“Nothing,” he said quietly. Then he closed his eyes and turned his head on the other side.

 

Q went to sleep hours later. He woke up briefly around sunrise when James' body slipped from under him (under him? How did he get on top of him?) and he supposed he went outside again, but he was too tired to think clearly. He dozed off.

When he woke up again, it was bright day. He opened his eyes to find himself pressed against James' side, almost hugging his hand, with his cheek resting at James' shoulder. He quickly drew back only to be met with a cold wall. He looked up to see those beautiful eyes staring at him.

Suddenly he was very aware of James' nakedness.

And of his morning erection.

He drew in a deep breath and tried to stand up and step over James, but a strong hand gripped his hip and pushed him back. He looked at James to find a clue in his face – was he mad? Should he use some strength to escape his rage? But James' face didn't look angry at all. His eyes went from Q's face to his crotch and when Q looked down, he realized with horror that his erection was very visible through his underpants.

James' hand went from his hip to that bulge and Q sighed in surprise when it slipped into his pants and a warm, mildly sweaty palm touched his cock.

He closed his eyes at the sensation. James fisted his cock slowly, nothing professional or sophisticated, just a quick dirty wank, but Q didn't need more. He opened his eyes to see James' other hand moving under the blanket and he felt a sudden desire to throw that blanket away and see him. But he didn't. Instead, he closed his eyes again and bucked up into the warm palm. James started to twist his wrist and he sped up and Q had to bite his lower lip to keep from moaning.

He finished very soon – he didn't get off in a few days and the stress from previous days added to his frustration. He bowed his head when he felt it coming and his forehead pressed into James' shoulder and he could appreciate his skin for a moment before his breath caught and his sperm covered the blanket, his shirt and James' hand.

He opened his eyes and saw James with his head thrown back and eyes closed, his head quick under the blanket, and Q wanted to look at him this way forever. James came shortly after. He breathed through it and when he opened his eyes, they were even more beautiful than before – his pupils were blown wide and the blue even more intense.

He pulled his hand from Q's pants and Q knelt and stepped over him to stand up. He went to the sink and pulled his shirt over his head, then tossed it into the bucket a started to rub the sperm off of it.

After a while, James stood up. Q let the shirt be and moved his direction, but James stopped him.

“It's fine,” he held up his hand. “I'm better, I can make two minutes standing. And I'm not shitting in your arms again.”

Q nodded and went back to his shirt.

James made it back in those two minutes. Q was just hanging his wet shirt on the back of the chair when he walked to the table and leaned against it.

“Can I wash up?” he asked. Q nodded and handed him the bucket. James quickly run his wet hands over his body and face. Lastly he washed his genitalia and arse.

“I don't recommend using it again,” he said and Q nodded.

“I'll throw it out,” he said.

They moved to their daily routine – James lied on the bed, Q checked his wound – still very healing impressively – and then dressed up and left. James spent his day sitting on the bed, sleeping to forget his hungriness and pain, and waited. When Q came back, it was already dark outside, and he came with cans of food, mostly beans. James hated beans, but he was so grateful for them he ate the whole can.

They went to sleep soon afterwards. Q was pressed to the wall again, but when he fell asleep, he slid closer to James. James slid one arm under his body and hugged him closer.

 

When Q woke up this time, his nose was pressed into James' neck. He breathed deeply and his musky scent hit his nostrils, making his already hard cock twitch. Q panicked out of instinct, but then settled down. He made his peace yesterday. At first it seemed inappropriate to shag his “patient” and an enemy, but then, it was just two men in a deserted place, relieving some tension. He could live with that. And yes, it made things even more awkward, but… yeah, definitely worth the orgasm.

He opened his eyes. James was up again, probably waiting for Q to wake up. He pulled at his shirt and Q sat up to undress, throwing it at the ground. His trousers followed and he lied down again, naked for the first time. James drew away the blanket. His cock was semi hard and Q's mouth watered at the sight of it. He spit on his hand and stroked it into full hardness.

James hummed. He hugged Q closer so that their naked bodies rubbed against each other, and gripped his arse. Q moved against his side, rubbing his cock against James' thigh. After a short consideration, James licked his middle finger and slid it across Q's opening.

Q moaned to show his agreement and ducked and took James' cock into his mouth.

“Wait,” James gasped. “Come here.”

He navigated him so he was straddling his head and began to rim him and pump his cock with his right hand, his left playing with his balls. Q hummed on his cock and quickened his pace, letting the length slide all the way into his throat and back. It didn't last long and thy both came, first Q, then James into his throat. Q lied next to him again, breathing heavily.

James' chest and stomach was covered in sperm. He saw Q looking at it with mixed feelings, dare and hesitation, and he swiped some with his thumb and liked it clean. Q's pupils dilated even more, if it was even possible.

“Why waste water,” James smirked. Q had to smile as well before bowing his head and licking his chest.

This time, the atmosphere was more relaxed. They got up, listened to the nature calling, ate.

“I'd appreciate my trousers,” James said and Q threw them in his direction. James had to fight with himself to pull them on, but he finally did and felt better partially dressed up. He sat on the bed, leaning against the wall, watching Q walk around.

“Why Q?” he asked. Q turned to him with a confused frown.

“Why what?”

“The name. Why Q?”

“Oh. It's QI661. My “serial number”, if you will.”

“And what about your real name?”

Q shrugged. “I don't remember.”

James didn't quite believe him, but he didn't push.

“Alright, I should go,” Q said and started to dress up. “I won't be that long today. They either died or are well enough to survive.”

He left short afterwards. James sighed and lied down. He was tired of sleep, of this dull silence and loneliness. He got used to being always with someone, the soldiers around him became his friends, and being passive and alone for this long made him sick. But as much as he wanted to leave and be with his friends again, he started to regret that he will have to leave Q here. There was no other option, though. They were too different. Lead different lives. And were enemies.

He decided not to prolong his hesitation. He will leave tomorrow, so those feelings slowly building in his chest won't get too serious. The pain in his side was still too strong and serious for him to walk, but he was sure Q will be just glad to carry him for a few miles to get rid of him.

 

Q made it home before the sunset this time. He wasn't nearly as dirty as days before and there was no blood involved. They ate out of the cans and then Q checked James' wound. It looked smooth, healed on the surface, so he didn't waste any more gauze on it.

“How do you feel?” he asked James.

“It still hurts when I move, but not when I'm still anymore, which is a great change. No fever for over a day now. I guess the fact that I had no problem with stool says a lot about the seriousness of the injury. So I thought I could go.”

Q sat up straight, taken aback.

“Alright,” he recovered quickly. “So I guess I should carry you to the village?”

“Yes. Yes, I think so.”

Q nodded and blinked a few times. Well, he knew that James wasn't going to stay forever. He never wanted him to stay more than a few days. Did he? No, just three days ago he almost prayed for him to recover quickly so he could get rid of him. So this is a good thing.

“Why James?” he asked abruptly. James frowned.

“Why… well, because I think we should cut this off before it's late.”

Q stared at him for a few seconds, an embarrassing silence spreading.

“I meant… why James Bond?” he said, baffled. “Your name.”

James opened his mouth, but no words came out. “Oh,” he said, at last.

“Yeah. Your… name,” Q tried to pick on the conversation. “It doesn't sound very Russian.”

“No,” James said enthusiastically, trying to do the same and forget what he said. “My grandfather was Scottish. He moved to Russia because of my grandmother.”

“Aren't your friends… sensitive? To your name?”

“Well, they call me Yakov if they are. But normally they understand that my name doesn't make me British.”

“Yakov,” Q repeated. James had to smile – from his mouth it sounded so weird, with his accent and that voice… something in him moved.

The rest of the day went in a similar tone. They talked, ate again, James had to live through another walks out, this time with both trousers and a shirt on, although it was more of a bunch of blood and dirt stained scraps of fabric holding together by the sheer power of thought.

When the sun went down and James started to feel more than a little tired, he stripped down and lied into the bed, followed by Q's raised eyebrows.

“Are we going to keep pretending that our cocks are hard only because of the morning erection?” James raised a corner of his lips in a daring smirk. Q's lips twitched a bit and he pulled his shirt over his head.

James watched as the younger man undressed. His body was slender but masculine, with curly black pubic hair around his flaccid cock and a thin happy trail reaching his belly button. He straddled James' good leg, leaning so his thigh pushed into his crotch. James grunted and gripped his arse, squeezing one cheek, and Q hummed appreciatively.

“You like that, huh?” James raised his other hand and squeezed the other cheek as well, pushing Q against his good side. He felt Q's cock harden, trapped between their stomachs.

Q didn't know what to do with himself. He wanted to kiss and lick James' body, but he felt like that was too intimate, so he didn't dare. James' fingers touched his opening and he bucked upwards. He could feel James' pubic hair on his balls and that was driving him crazy. His breath hitched when James kissed his neck and then bit down.

“Fuck!” he breathed out and straddled both of James' legs, carefully avoiding any pressure on his wound. Their cocks aligned and they both groaned. James licked his fingers and started to massage Q's pucker while Q fisted both of their cocks and started to jerk them off. He bowed his head and took one of James' nipples into his mouth.

“Bite down,” James whispered harshly and Q did.

“Fuck!” James cursed and bucked his hips which made him groan in pain. Q tenderly chewed on the hard nipple and stroked their cocks while one of James' fingers made its way into him. They both started to breathe more deeply.

After a few minutes, when their breaths were coming out ragged and sweat was breaking on their skin, Q had to sit up and switch his hands, what made them laugh.

“Seems like we're not boys anymore,” James said with a smile. Q bent down again and James grasped his hair and brought his ear to his lips. “Imagine how long I could fuck you if I were healed.”

Q shuddered and started to kiss his neck. James slipped second finger into him and he bit down on his shoulder.

“Sit up,” James gasped. Q straightened up and the shift made the fingers in his arse slip even deeper.

“Oh, god!” he cried out.

“Fuck yourself on them,” James ordered and Q was only happy to obey. James cupped their balls with his other hand. He could feel Q's balls tightening and in a minute, Q felt his orgasm overpowering his body. He fisted his own cock, forgetting all about James for a while, and the older soldier quickly fingered him into completion.

Q came with a shout and the first load of his semen reached James' chin. He stroked himself through it, milking his cock, gasping the whole time.

After, he had to lean back on his elbows to breathe it out. James slowly stroked his cock, now wet from not just their shared pre-cum, but from Q's load as well. When Q was able to think again, he wanted to bend down and take him into his mouth, but James stopped him.

“Rim me,” he said breathily. Q ducked even lower and licked his arse.

James didn't last long after that. Q made his best efforts to stretch him with his tongue, lick deep and suck hard, and it paid off when James started to shake and came seconds after.

Q lied beside him, both breathing heavy. James had words on his tongue, but he swallowed them. Q would never want to hear how James liked him relaxed. He would probably kick him off the bed for commenting on how slutty he could get. So he didn't say anything and instead stood up and went to the bucket full of water. He washed and came back. Q was already asleep.

 

The morning was quiet.

They woke up, dressed, ate. James kept wincing the whole time. Q insisted on checking the injury one last time, so James sat down on the chair by the table and lifted up the hem of his shirt. Q traced the scarred skin with his fingers, silently examining it, and James wanted to tell him that it's alright, but Q's hot breath was licking his stomach and he just let it go.

“It's almost unbelievable how easy and quick you heal,” he said. “That's just good. Normally I thought you'd need more time…”

“Q,” James stopped him. Q looked at him and James felt like he could see something in him that wasn't there before, not even when he was lying on top of him, silently screaming off his orgasm. Q was somehow vulnerable and naked. And James wanted to save him from pain.

“We should go,” Q said, his voice very silent and wretched. He reached for his jacket when something burst the door open.

They both snapped their heads to it and Q turned right in time to block an attack. A big, scarred man was going for his head. Q tried to block a few hits with somehow lazy movements, but in three seconds he realised his mistake, when his strength was not enough and the soldier kicked his stomach. Q recovered quickly and suddenly they were fighting a very quick, very tough fight.

“Fuck,” James cursed under his breath. “Alec! Q!”

Their movements slowed down, but not one of them wanted to trust the other one to stop.

“Both of you, stop!”

Q kicked Alec so hard the man had to take a few steps back, and that stopped the fight, leaving them out of breath and in a ready position to attack again.

“Alec,” James warned. Alec breathed out and dropped his hands.

“Q, please,” James said more gently. Q did the same, eying Alec suspiciously.

“James, shto to?” Alec asked in Russian.

“Alec, eto Q,” James pointed at Q. “Q, this is Alec. My friend.”

“Friend?” Alec asked in an even harder accent that James had. “I look for you everywhere and you are here with friend?”

James didn't know what to say to that. Q bowed his head.

“Well, I guess now you don't need me anymore,” he said and all his barriers were back. He looked at James with tough eyes. “Soldier.”

In that one word James could hear a strong accusation. He sighed.

“Alec, could you please wait for me outside?” he asked. Alec frowned, but nodded and turned to leave. When the door closed behind him, Q turned to James.

“So,” he said cheerfully. “I guess I wasn't the only super bloke in this house.”

“Q…” James tried to reach him, but Q shook his head.

“I guess spilling my guts to you wasn't enough to deserve…”

“Q, I couldn't tell you!” James stood up and barely winced. “I have people to protect.”

“And I don't?!” Q shouted.

“That's not my problem!” James said and Q almost said something, but then he realised that no, that wasn't James' problem. “You decided to tell me and that is your shit.”

Q's expression toughened even more. James felt like was looking at a stone wall.

“Look,” he toned down. “I won't use anything you told me. I promise,” he added when Q scoffed.

“At least tell me if the whole regiment… is it more than you and Alec?”

James sat down and sighed. “Yes.”

“I thought we were a legend,” Q said sarcastically.

“You were. I really thought you were. Look, do you know something about the Soltoi Bluff?”

Q looked confused.

“What?”

“The second world war. Stoltoi was a general in the red army. He spent half his life convincing America that we had thirty times as many rockets as we actually had. Pentagon knew from the start that it was bullshit, but that didn't stop them from creating the biggest arms build-up in the history. We thought you were trying to do the same thing. Convince us that you had super soldiers. Well, we went and made our own ones, and of course Russia believes in you, but the people we worked with never did. Or maybe they were trying to convince us that you are just a myth to think more of ourselves. I don't know.”

Q listened with a little wrinkle above his nose. James waited if he wants to say something, but it seemed that Q was done for the moment. James stood up.

“I won't tell anyone you exist and Alec won't, either. I am his commander officer and a friend. No one will know about the truth.”

He turned to leave.

“Why?”

He stopped and looked at Q. He thought about it for a moment, then walked to him, hugged his lower back and kissed him.

He realized his mistake when it was too late. Because now, when he finally felt Q's lips and he was closer to him than any time before, he wanted to stay so badly. He wanted to see the look on Q's face again, the one without the barriers and walls. But that was impossible. He had to leave and he had to leave now.

“007,” he said when his lips left Q's. “My designated number.”

He let go of the slender body from his grasp and turned.

“Christopher Seymoor.”

He snapped his head back. Q was looking at him with hurt eyes. “My name is Christopher Seymoor.”

James didn't know what to do. He pushed away all the natural instincts that were screaming at him to go kiss him again, and left.


	2. Chapter 2

Q's flat was the most miserable place he ever lived in. Counting his cabin in the woods. He tried to share houses or flats with other people, but very, very soon it became obvious that he can't stay around people. So he found the cheapest flat outside of London and moved in.

He was lost. In this new life, everything was foreign. People were everywhere. He developed some sort of a social anxiety, making him crippled with fear anytime he had to go to a supermarket or to the city. And he had to go every week to see his useless therapist. The tube was a horror train.

He didn't know why. Yes, he was used to being alone for something over a year, but he did meet people – when he went to the trench and helped the injured ones, he was never scared. His therapist told him he was linking death and injury to crowded places, and because he used to isolate himself from that all, he now feels the need so many times more because this world is by itself so uncomfortable for him. His report said so many things was wrong with him – PTSD, depression, social anxiety… those were just the tip of the iceberg. He couldn't sleep at nights and when he finally fell asleep, it was throughout the day, so he went a few days in a row without sunlight. He tried to eat, bought himself groceries every week, but always ended up throwing at least a half of it to waste. His neighbours feared him or pitied him. He hated what he became.

Q turned the corner and almost bumped into his perky old neighbour, Mrs Gullivan. The shopping bag in his hand swished as he gripped it tighter.

“Christopher, my dear!” she broke into a cheerful speech when she saw him and she hugged his arm and began walking with him. “I wanted to talk to you. I know I already told you, but I feel like you should be reminded from time to time, don't you? Young people are worse than Alzheimer patients!”

Q stiffly continued to his house with the little lady on his arm. He hated people that thought of him as a “young, fragile thing”. He was a war veteran, for Christ's sake, a thirty two years old super soldier. He could kill her in eighteen ways in this position. And he remembered absolutely everything, from his school papers when he was six until now.

“... and this is our only chance to show how we care of our neighbourhood, and I know you care, you strike me as a very proud person – so why don't you mown a little in front of your house, maybe put something nice on your door…”

He pulled the keys to his house from his back pocket and looked up. On the stairs leading to the front door sat a man. Q's breath hitched when he saw the blond hair and tanned skin and those oh-so-blue eyes.

“Mrs Gullivan, excuse me,” he pulled his hand free and walked to the stairs, transfixed. James stood up and they looked at each other.

“Well, you look like shit,” James broke the silence and Q had to smile. “Want to spill your guts to me?”

“Well, I can't sleep, eat or exist around people, and when I think about it, I don't really remember the last time I shitted.”

James' mouth quirked up in an amused half smile.

“I drink and shag excessively instead of eating and sleeping.”

They were both grinning now. James reached for Q and pulled him into a tight hug. Q feared he would react like he used to with everyone who touched him, but instead found his body relaxing against the broad chest.

“Q,” James whispered into his ear and Q felt like something deep in him was finally filled after gaping empty for months. Something normal in the chaos around him. His name.

“007,” he answered and heard James' surprised laughter.

“You remembered.”

“I have an exceptional memory. May I invite you to my humble house of terror?”

James nodded against Q's hair and finally let him go.

“But remember, I require alcohol and sex.”

“I am good at maintaining broken soldiers,” Q opened his front door and walked inside. James followed him and when the door closed, he pulled him into another hug and kissed him.

“What about stating with you?” he asked. “I'll order a pizza and we take a nap afterwards.”

Q raised his eyebrows.

“And what will we do until the pizza arrives?”

James nuzzled his neck. “Well, you said you are good at maintaining broken soldiers.”

Q half laughed. “Well, if it's a part of your therapy…”

James swiped him from his feet and carried him bridal style deeper into the old, almost unfurnished house. The bedroom doors closed behind them with a happy thud.


End file.
